


Dalliances By Firelight

by FictionPenned



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: To be a man with everything to gain is, at once, to be a man with nothing left to lose, except for, perhaps, his reputation.Dolokhov's present situation is built almost entirely upon reputation. It is its own currency to be bargained and traded for social status. Men cling to him in search of glory and charisma and stories with which to impress their many lovers, and in return, he is permitted to rise above his natural station. Such is the way of things. It is a natural symbiosis, an agreed upon exchange as old as society itself.Written for Fic In a Box 2020
Relationships: Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Dalliances By Firelight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



To be a man with everything to gain is, at once, to be a man with nothing left to lose, except for, perhaps, his reputation.

Dolokhov's present situation is built almost entirely upon his reputation. It is its own currency to be bargained and traded for social status. Men cling to him in search of glory and charisma and stories with which to impress their many lovers, and in return, he is permitted to rise above his natural station. Such is the way of things. It is a natural symbiosis, an agreed upon exchange as old as society itself. 

Anatole is no exception to this well-known rule, however, the pair shares a gravity which seems, at times, to operate independently from the laws of physics. Anatole and Dolokhov rotate between peace and tension and good humor, hitting each point in their orbit with a degree of punctuality that borders upon unsettling. Indeed, it would not be entirely surprising to learn that one of the men's shared acquaintances has learned to set his pocketwatch accordingly. 

On this particular night in Dolokhov’s home, they circle each other like two wolves, each bearing the unmistakable air of conquest, of battles won and cities looted just beyond view. For at least one of them, the air is most certainly a façade, adopted to gain the praise and attention that he so deeply craves. 

"Tell me, Dolokhov, do you think of me often?" Anatole poses the question with the droll insolence of a man who was born into privilege and knows little else. 

"Not nearly as often as you would like to suppose."

A feral, lupine grin breaks across Anatole's features. "Yes, I suppose that must be true. A head as large as yours must be full of other unkind thoughts, or, at the very least, drowned in a cruel excess of wine." He tilts his head as he speaks, eyes sparkling with a mirth so striking that it rivals the roaring light of the fire. 

Dolokhov summons a sound caught halfway beneath a frustrated huff and a breath of laughter, the sort of sound that might be completely unreadable to those who do not know him. Anatole, however, knows him well. They know each other most intimately, as one might expect from two men who have known each other for years. It is a calculation that can be made even without taking into account the many beds and kisses and bandied whispers that have been shared during those years.

They are friends and comrades and more besides. 

“If you wish for someone to think of you and you alone, dear friend, the perhaps you’d best capture the heart of yet _another_ young ingenue. I, for one, have other ways to occupy my time.” Dolokhov comments as he pours himself a generous serving of rum, before holding the bottle out towards Anatole with a knowingly curved raise of his eyebrow. “Drink?” 

Anatole swings his legs up onto the divan with a smile, purposefully striving to take up space. “Always.” 

There is not a man in all of Russia who would turn down a perfectly good drink these days. One must thoroughly imbibe both to tolerate the present and have any hope for the future. The pressure of this seemingly endless war saps the energy from all who know of it. Even now, with the fighting thoroughly out of sight and out of earshot, it still weighs heavily upon their shoulders. Noble violence, done in the service of a country and a cause in which they thoroughly believe, still enacts a certain toll, builds a certain fear, leaves certain scars. 

Of course, neither of them would dare to speak upon such things. This is a space for banter and friendship and heated passion, not for arduous matters of the spirit. 

The second drink is poured and passed wordlessly from one man to the other with only a small grunt of thanks to mark the moment. 

Anatole downs half his glass in a single gulp — an overambitious feat, to be sure, intended only to impress the man across from him and not for any practical purpose — but he finds himself fighting to suppress a throaty cough that marks his failure. 

Dolokhov looks sideways at the ungraceful noise, but does not comment upon it. He merely outdoes him, finishing off his own glass in a single, unwavering sweep that requires very little effort. He has always been able to outstrip most drinkers, one of the many feats that defines his popularity in the circles in which he runs. Most men want to be him, and some men want to be with him. Still more want both. 

“As far as I see it,” Anatole begins upon clearing his throat, “There is little point in being here if you are not going to think of me. Perhaps I had best be off.” There is nowhere to go but the barracks, he supposes, but it is a worthy enough threat. With his clouded head and the scent of Dolokhov’s in his nose, he lacks the creativity to think of another. 

Dolokhov does not so much as flinch. “Don’t be absurd.” 

Anatole, having made no mood to leave, back still firmly set against the divan, cocks his head and lifts his chin. “ _Oh_?”

This is a dance, a familiar series of vague invitations and flirtatious rebuttals. It is how they set their terms for an evening, the ground upon which they must trod in order to cross the threshold. 

Amusement curls the corner of Dolokhov’s mouth. “If I pour you another drink, will you be able to keep it?” 

Anatole lazily extends his arm to the side, bandying his empty glass. “There is only one way to find out, is there not?” 

With no great haste, Dolokhov crosses the room. There is heat between them as the drink is poured, a steady stare held in their eyes, a tempestuous flicker in the set of their faces. and Anatole tastes the rum not first from his refilled glass, but in the remnants upon Dolokhov’s lips. 

He does not waste a single drop.


End file.
